


Smears of Scarlet

by ToAStranger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor John Hamish Watson wasn't immune to the horrors that he'd seen in his life, and he had definitely seen horror. Lived it. Been knee deep in it. Johnlock if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smears of Scarlet

Doctor John Hamish Watson wasn’t immune to the horrors that he’d seen in his life, and he had _definitely_ seen horror. Lived it. Been knee deep in it. And, just as any human being, it had affected him in unchangeable ways. It made him stronger. It made him colder. It made him indifferent. However, as previously stated, Doctor Watson was not immune to it all. In fact, he was quite affected by it—one of the many reasons he’d become a military medic in the first place.

 

Doctor John Hamish Watson hated seeing people in pain. It could be anything from a splinter to a severed limb; John hated seeing the agony of others. Certainly, as an army many, he’d inflicted his fair share of wounds, but he was an accurate man. His hand never wavered when he shot a gun, and he would never just leave someone to bleed out if he had to resort to hand-to-hand combat. Because when John Watson was going to kill someone, he wouldn’t watch them suffer. This nearly irrational disdain for the pain of others was what made him want to be a doctor in the first place. It was better if he could help make that anguish cease, be it with medicine or other care. The only problem was, it wasn’t ever as simple as that. It wasn’t an exact science.

 

He’d had to listen to a man scream for three hours, once. It had been near the beginning of his time in Afghanistan, and some poor sod had stumbled upon a landmine. There was so much shrapnel in him that it was a work of God that he hadn’t died on impact. He’d been in shock while they took him back to base, nerves numbed by the endorphins running through his system. By the time John began to dig in, pilling out scraps of metal and stitching up as quickly and cleanly as he could, the man was wailing. They’d run out of anesthesia the day prior, and had no time to wait around for more. So, the young man had been strapped down, and John had done his best to save his life—to sooth the mortal wounds that coated his left side. He’d been successful, too. Plucked out every piece and stopped off any bleeding. But the man still screamed. Screamed and cried until unconsciousness claimed him. 

 

John hated himself after that. Hated himself for not doing a better job. For not being the healer he was supposed to be. And that disgust for himself grew until he began doing stupid things. Putting himself in the line of danger, if only to keep others out of it. He didn’t mind feeling pain or the life-threatening situations. He especially didn’t mind when it kept his mates from being shot in the shoulder like he had been. He fully planned to get back in it, to keep on fighting the good fight. But then his leg happened and fever struck. Haggard and war worn, they sent him back to the homeland with nothing but memories and nightmares of memories. Of bloodied men and curdling screams. Because Doctor John Hamish Watson was _not_ immune to the horrors that he’d seen.

Which was why, one particularly nippy autumn afternoon, John came home to 22iB Baker St. with an aching leg and heavy weight in his gut. He winced as he walked through the front door, so rapt in his own red thoughts that he didn’t even notice the unusual smoky smell of the flat. There were ghosts in his eyes as he drifted in, stumbling as he shed his coat and headed straight for the washroom. Because even thought his hands were clean, there was blood on them. The blood of the boy who’d gotten into a car accident that morning. The blood of the soldiers he’d doctored over the years during the war. Smears of scarlet on his fingers and across his face and on his tongue and he just needed to get _clean_. He was filthy with it. Covered in their agony and drowning in his own self-loathing.

 

“Ah, John!” Sherlock perked up from behind his flatmate’s computer, soot dusting his cheek from whatever experiment gone awry. “You’re home early. You’ll never believe what I’ve discovered.”

 

The shorter man grunted in response, eyes downcast as he continued on his way. He didn’t have the patience for the consulting detective. Not that day. That in and of itself was enough to let Sherlock know that something was dreadfully wrong. With his keen eye, he could spot all of the other tells, as well. The hunch of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched and clenched, and the fact that the good Doctor was completely ignoring him. Something was amiss, and Sherlock didn’t like it one bit.

 

“John?” He called and was met with no reply, his ice blue eyes watching as the ex-soldier stumbled down the hallway.

 

It wasn’t until he heard the shower turn on that he slapped the laptop closed, setting it aside so that he could spring to his feet. He rushed across the flat, concern etching his features. Because something was wrong with his flatmate, his Doctor, his blogger, _his John_. Something was wrong with _his_ John, and he had to fix it—John was really the only friend he had, after all. The bathroom door was ajar, hanging open and revealing a small amount of well-lit room. Sherlock had to push it the rest of the way open, and his breathing hitched at the sight.

 

The shower curtain hung open, water spraying down and bouncing off John’s shivering form. He hadn’t even undressed properly—his shirt was hanging off of one shoulder and his trousers weren’t even undone. He was already soaked to the bone, leaning heavily against the tile wall. The only indication of the water’s temperature was his bluing lips and the chatter of his teeth.

 

Sherlock took long strides across the room, calling out to the other man once more as he reached out to shut off the faucet. Trembling fingers caught his wrist, and a pleading, unseeing gaze peered up at him from under wet lashes. Judging by the bloodshot eyes, he’d been crying. Dear lord, his John had been crying. There were hot tears streaking down his cheeks.

 

“Please, Sherlock…” John’s voice broke, and his hand clenched around a pale limb, rough and imposing. “ _Please_ , I can’t—I _can’t_ even—”

 

“Shush, John,” he let himself get tugged forward until he was under the icy spray. “I’m here.”

 

He collapsed into him, face buried against his dampening shirt as they slid to the bottom of the tub. Sherlock’s dark hair hung in his face, dripping, as he wrapped John up in his arms. He reached behind him, over his head, and shut the water off with a sharp jerk. The only sound that was left was the faint sobs muffled against his neck. He ran long, delicate fingers through John’s short hair, pulling him closer and hoping that this would stop soon. Feelings weren’t something Sherlock was comfortable dealing with, but he would deal with them to make sure that John was better. That John would _be better._

****

Because Sherlock was nothing without his blogger, and even the smears of scarlet that John saw on his cloths, on his skin, in his hair—even on the worst of John’s days, Sherlock was there. Would be there. Always.

 

For as much as Doctor John Hamish Watson hated seeing others in pain, detective Sherlock Holmes despised the very though of John in any sort of anguish. For as much as Sherlock loathed admitting he had a heart, he was in love with the man in his arms. And no amount of past or imaginary blood would change that.

 

_Fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated.


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